


baby if you're not alone

by Imkerin



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Borussia Dortmund, M/M, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-07-29 21:49:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7700968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imkerin/pseuds/Imkerin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco's on vacation. Clearly now is a good time for Auba to train wearing his shirt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	baby if you're not alone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hellabaloo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellabaloo/gifts).



"I can't believe you did that," Marco says, just as soon as Auba picks up, before he can say anything at all. He sounds admiring and scandalized in about equal measure.

It's a good sound for him, a very good sound, and Auba thinks he'd like to hear it last a little longer. "Did what, bro?" he asks, working his long-practiced casual innocence as he mutes the TV and tosses the controller onto the table. Marco's usually more entertaining than FIFA, except when FIFA _involves_ Marco, but until he gets home all they've got is snaps and the phone. And maybe sometimes instagram and facebook: what's life without creativity?

" _You_ know," Marco says. There's a little shuffling noise from his end, the click of a door closing, and that tiny, huffy, exasperated sigh that always makes Auba want to laugh at him for being so dramatic.

Now's no exception, but he bites his lip on it, slouching back onto the arm of the couch and grinning up at the ceiling. "What could I do when I'm all the way over here training my ass off and you're on a nice yacht somewhere?"

Marco knocks something over with a clatter and grumbles about it not quite under his breath and Auba can't resist laughing anymore, which gets him another irritated grumping noise that makes it even harder to stop. Marco, he has this effect on him a lot, this weird thing where every dumb thing he does, every little quirk builds on top of each other and gets at him somewhere deep inside. He suddenly, desperately wants to pinch his ear and maybe mess up his hairgel, but he obviously can't. He makes a rude sound into the phone instead. "Small nice yacht?"

"You find me one where the bathrooms aren't too small and I'll take that one next time," Marco says, a bit cattily but Auba doesn't care because all it takes is knowing Marco's alone, _deliberately_ alone, to send his mood straight off the right-angle cliff from amused to turned on. 

He slides his hand down the front of his boxers, cupping himself lightly: not jerking it, not yet, just enjoying the feel of the gentle pressure and the noise of Marco fidgeting around, trying to get comfortable like a giant bird trying to fit in a tiny nest. The bathroom's not really all that small -- Auba had gotten the FaceTime tour earlier -- but Marco's fussiness is endearing in that same damn way. It's ridiculous to miss him when he's talking to Marco _right now_ and it's barely been a few weeks, and won't be any more longer than that, but there it is. "What did I do?" he prompts.

"Fuck you.” But even when they’re alone, even when they’re half a thousand miles apart and Auba can’t see his pathetic attempts at acting, Marco can’t hold it for half a second before he’s laughing. “I can’t believe you made your _dad_ post that.”

“What’s weird with him taking video of me training?” Auba asks, except he maybe overdoes the sweetness and light a little bit this time, going by Marco’s outraged scoff. “Bro!”

“ _Fuck_ you,” Marco says again, and then a split second before Auba can make fun of him for it, or maybe just agree with the suggestion, he says, “You-- you looked good.” There’s a strange little catch in his breath, one that has Auba shifting up on the couch to prop himself up more comfortably in the corner so he can listen harder. “Really good.”

“I always look really good,” he counters, because with Marco, sometimes it’s best to let him work up to it and come out with it himself, if there’s something that’s bothering him; and if there isn’t, and he’s just getting a boner from remembering watching Auba train, well, Auba can definitely work with that too.

“Yeah, sure.” He swallows, barely audible, but enough to make Auba think about his mouth, his tongue, enough to make him squeeze his dick a little, curling his fingers tighter. “Hey, would you wear it for me? When I get home?”

Auba’s tempted to tease him a little longer, pretending he doesn’t know what Marco’s talking about, but as much as he likes, maybe loves, doing that, he can’t shake the feeling that there’s something a little off -- and then he goes over it again, trying not to think with his dick and oh. _Oh._ “The whole kit, or just the shirt?” he asks, because Marco’s definitely acting like he very much wants to talk _around_ the transfer-window possibility that Auba might not be there when he gets home, like Mats or Mo or Neven or Ilkay or Heno, and not come at it head on in either direction. It's a depressingly long list this year already, and getting longer by the rumor, so this one time he'll give him a pass for doubting him.

“Fuck,” Marco breathes for a third time, and before Marco, Auba hadn’t really known it was possible to pack so much into one word like that, but Marco, he’s good at that kind of thing. Especially with ‘fuck’ and ‘you bitch’ and other shit you wouldn’t really expect to mean _thank you_ and _thank God_ and _man I wanna bang you into next week_ all at the same time. “Okay, ah, just-- just the shirt.”

“I could say I’m wearing it now.”

“Are--no you’re not.”

He isn’t. “If I was.”

“You’re touching yourself already, aren’t you,” Marco says, “fuck--” which this time pretty much just means fuck. “What --” He cuts himself off, takes a shaky breath, tries again. “What are you wearing, besides my shirt?”

“Boxers,” Auba says. “Mine, not yours.” He looks down the couch. He’s also wearing one sock, but he doesn’t think the story of how he stepped in milk earlier and didn’t bother getting another pair out for his off day is really sexy enough to include.

Marco moves around a little again and Auba can’t hear the sound of his zipper over the general rustle, but he can tell by the quick change in his breath when he’s got his hand on himself. “I liked seeing my name on you,” he says, low, almost as if it’s some kind of secret.

“You liked everyone else seeing it,” Auba says, and he knows he’s right because Marco gasps a little, half-swallowing it to keep himself quiet, and also because _he_ liked everyone else seeing it, and somehow they’ve just always worked really good together like this. “But I’ll wear it again for you anyway.”

“You’re supposed to be wearing it right now,” Marco complains. He sounds too good for Auba to take him seriously though, to do anything but half laugh and say _okay, okay_ and start to touch himself in earnest as Marco says “I want to fuck you,” in that awkward rushed way of his. “God, Auba, I-- when I watched that, that was all I could think, how much I wanted to fuck you in my shirt like that, after you trained, maybe after a game.”

They haven’t ever actually done it in the stadium for obvious reasons but the thought of it is always next level, the danger, the thrill of it enough to give Auba a little high just from the fantasy. “So we could swap shirts,” he says. “After the game. You could fuck me wearing your nasty, sweaty, match-worn--”

“Oh, fuck off,” Marco says, laughing between sharp-drawn breaths. “Yeah, yeah, I will. In the shower, up against the wall with the water next to us on so no one can hear the way you beg for my dick.”

Auba has to bite off a curse himself, his cock jerking in his grip, precome smearing slick and wet across his thumb and leaking over his boxers before he can wrestle them down his thighs one handed. “You don’t want them to hear?”

“I want that just for me,” Marco says, “what you say when I’m fucking you, how you sound when -- shit, yes, like that,” he adds as Auba moans, taking his unfair advantage of being alone in the house to be as loud as he wants, “God, do it again, let me hear you, Auba, _please_.”

“Marco,” he says, letting it trail off into another, forcing himself to let go of his dick, to skim his fingers down over his balls instead, cupping them briefly, then pressing behind them the way Marco sometimes does when he’s going down on him, wishing he had lube, or lotion, or _Marco_ anywhere nearby. “Do you have lube?” he asks, because Marco’s in a bathroom and probably does.

“What?” Marco says, and then, “Oh, yeah-- ah--” and there’s the click of some kind of bottle cap, the shuffle of the phone against his shoulder, and then Marco makes this obscene choked noise that must be almost too loud and Auba has to grab his cock again, can’t help it, pumping himself faster now, harder; says, “Fuck, Marco, fuck me, give me your dick,” and isn’t even acting at all.

“Oh god, Auba,” Marco says, and it’s all the hotter for how quiet it is in comparison, how tense, how ragged his one last quick breath is before he’s coming, nearly silently-- Auba can imagine his teeth clamping into his lip, forcing it shut, leaving bright red marks. 

That’s enough for him, enough to tip him over the edge and past it, coming over his arm and shirt in thick streaks -- he can’t help thinking, with the little of his brain still capable of coherent thought, of what it’ll look like when it really is Marco’s kit he’s coming over, and it’s no trouble at all to be louder than he usually is, and not just for Marco’s sake.

“That was fucking good,” Marco says, a bit later, after they’ve just sat there listening to each other breathe for a little while.

“Yeah,” Auba agrees. “So come home and we can do it again.”

“Alright,” Marco says. “Alright.”


End file.
